The Things We Know
by pH 12
Summary: "Suicide doesn't happen here. Nuh-uh. No way. It's out of bounds, out of depth. How does it feel to make history, Angela?"


On the first day, everyone wandered about their daily lives in a sort of agonising numbness. This sort of thing didn't happen regularly, only the big cities had this problem. Suicide wasn't an option for Castanet. It was totally unthinkable. Maybe it's why Hamilton got so caught up about it – his peaceful town was shattered.

And then the residents…they were just shocked. This had happened on their doorsteps. I won't say that they knew Angela because, really, only I did.

On the second day, Julius came into the Inn. Maya had briefly made a passing comment to Yolanda but he had heard. Unsurprising, considering all he did was sit, hunched, staring into his cocktail glass like it were a crystal ball. His eyes had flown up to meet Maya's as a reign of violence began. Maya was called every word under the sun. He must have been waiting for it, the rumours, as he recited every line tone perfect without a hint of wavering.

I didn't feel sorry for Maya. But I did feel sorry for Julius. He and Angela had been officially dating. I say officially, as that's all it was for her – an official boyfriend. Not a true, actual, real boyfriend. That was my role.

On the third day, the rumours surfaced. Dark, twisting tales of how they had found her, of why she had decided to take the easy way out. Since none of us really knew, no one could step up to dismiss them. They could only shake their head and say that Angela would never have done such a thing.

On the fourth day, her parents came. Her mother was old and frail with tendrils of thick golden hair. She had a gorgeous face but it was aged with grief. Her eyes were dull, lifeless, staring. Questioning whether you had anything to do with her daughter's death. Angela's father was the spitting image of her. Short hazel hair with forgiving eyes that were drowning in grief, sadness, anger. When we first met, when I had first shaken his hand, he looked at me. A cold stare. As if he knew I was the only one on the island that knew his daughter.

But I knew her better than he did.

On the sixth day, the funeral took place. Locals all arrived with posies of flowers and equally drab expressions. None of us really knew how to act – sure, we had attended funerals, but they had been murdered by illness. We had never attended the funeral of someone whom murdered themselves.

And all throughout that 15 minute sermon, I had gazed at every single forsaken person there. Maya was dabbing at tears that would never come. Julius was slowly edging nearer the coffin, whilst Angela's parents were cowering in grief. Luke and Bo stared at the ground whilst Selena looked towards the sea, totally uninterested.

But then the after party, God, what a shambles that was. Everyone stood up and shared a memory of Angela with the crowd. They acted as if they knew her, as if they were her friends.

But they don't know the way she smelled after a shower. They don't know about the tanginess of her breath. They don't know about the way her eyes dazzled when she looked at the sky. They don't know of the nights we spent by the church, her hand in mine as we lay down on the cold cobbles, staring at the sky. They don't know how the name 'Chase' sounds when it's moaned out, long and slow with a hint of desperation.

They don't know of the way I walked her home the night before she died and kissed her, long and hard against the door.

They don't know of the way her voice sounded when she spoke of Julius. Of the resentment.

They don't know how she smelt after farming, of manure and sweat and strawberries.

They don't know of the smile she would put on when she seen me.

They don't know of the ring I have in my underwear drawer, under the red pair of briefs.

They don't know of the bank account we shared, of the money we stashed away.

They don't know of the plans we made to run away from this damned town, to watch it burn to the ground.

They don't know that I loved her and she loved me, to the death.

They don't know.

But I do.

* * *

**A/N - I love angsty stories. Really. I adore writing them. So much emotion and all that jazz, it's simply wonderful.**

**Gawd, I'm sick, aren't I?**

**Ah well. I forget where the inspiration for this came from but it was most likely from a song. Either way, I enjoyed writing it, and I might consider going into it in more detail in the future. When I can get my ass in gear.**

**(IE - Not very soon) **


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